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| Bring back the traditional bookshop No more lounging in Waterstone's or browsing in Borders – turn over an old leaf with the starchy, strait-laced booksellers of oldWhen the Borders Group first imported its corporate ambience to the UK in 1998, it seemed the book business had been made anew. Here were stores in which not only could you get away with browsing noncommittally, you were positively encouraged to do so. There were armchairs for lolling in while you read a chapter or two, as well as coffee-shops that offered cappuccinos and a range of sugar-laden treats to keep your energy levels up while lolling.It wasn't long before Waterstone's followed suit, the bigger branches kitted out with the kinds of squashy brown leather sofas they have in the Groucho Club, sweet little window seats, and the de rigueur waft of Costa Coffee fumes. It's all so much more civilised than yesteryear. We have left behind the brutally commodified atmosphere of the old book chains, and seen it replaced with a proper air of studious contemplation more appropriate to the business in hand.Except, I've had enough now. It may be lovely to be able to read a chunk of a book in an unhurried fashion while deciding to buy, but I don't believe that's what most of these sofa-lollers are doing. Bookshops have now taken on the atmosphere of municipal libraries, with people killing an empty hour or so between arrangements, or else just waiting for the rain to stop. I caught a man in Waterstone's in Piccadilly, London, with his feet up over the end of the sofa, settling himself agreeably while leafing through a large work of war history. Furthermore, since people now expect to be able to sit and read, there is an unspoken battle for sofa-space, with the result that, if every seat is taken, they make do with the floor, transforming the place less into the local library than the departure lounge at Gatwick. A pair of backpackers in the Charing Cross Road Borders had set up camp in front of (wouldn't you know it?) Philosophy, spreading out their gear and sitting cross-legged at the foot of the shelves to read graphic novels, impervious to the Excuse-mes of those of us trying to get to the Badious (I know, I know, it's what we deserve).The smell of coffee-machines is now the default aroma of the urban environment in Britain, beguiling enough when you're on the point of flagging, vaguely sickening when you're already satiated with caffeine. Once held mythically to be a great way to sell your house, it now hovers like a bilious miasma over the business of book-buying, for no other reason than to smarten up those profit-margins that have been dented by encouraging people to lounge about with no intention of buying a book.There will be people who still feel it's good to be able to sit and think, without being pressured into making a decision. I do remember a fearsome manager at the WH Smith of my childhood, who used to follow you about tidying up the shelves every time you put back a book you had just briefly looked at. But I also remember a small independent bookshop, staffed only by a man who looked far too young to be wearing a cravat, and who only looked up from his own book in order to tie up your purchase in brown parcel paper and string.That to me is a more gemütlich experience than the Borders/Waterstone's approach. Nobody used the place as a railway station waiting-room (there was nowhere to sit), and nor were you likely to be sold a Danish pastry with which you could then gum up the pages of the next book you started leafing through. The backlash starts here.Waterstone'sBooksellersStuart Waltonguardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2009 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds feeds.guardian.co.uk |
Writers and typewriters: Barnes, Lively, Holroyd, Moggach and Self Julian BarnesI work on an IBM 196c and own two of them as their breakdown rate is high. Though nowadays I often first-draft by hand, and later type up on the machine. Then hand-correct again and again until the text is almost illegible, then type up again.I think you need the technology that suits the way your brain works. Sometimes you need your thoughts to go down your arm in what feels like a direct feed via pencil or felt-tip to paper, sometimes you require a more formal "sit up and address a machine".When I tried writing on a computer, it felt an inert business. I had no relationship with the machine; whereas my IBM 196c makes a nice hum, as if it's saying quietly: "Come on, get on with it" or "Surely you can improve on that."I also found that, while the myth of the computer was that it made everyone write at greater length, and under-correct, because on the screen and in neat print-out it looks more finished than it is, I found that I was constantly over-correcting, ending up with something too tight and unflowing for a first draft.Penelope LivelyI still don't use a computer – not out of technological idiocy or Luddism, but because of a chronic back problem that means I can't sit at a desk. I've an ancient electronic typewriter, a Canon Typestar: perfect, as it's small and extremely light. It's also very well made: I've had it now for around 10 years, and written five books on it. I don't think they make them any more; I dread the day it dies. The disadvantage is that you can't turn out perfect copy, which makes writing letters and reviews trickier. But for books, it's fine: I produce a proper manuscript, covered in crossings-out and corrections, which I then send to an agency that transfers it to disc. I like to have a really old-fashioned, messy manuscript; even were I to find a laptop light enough, I'd have to print everything out. I need the feel of paper under my hand.Michael HolroydI kept my typewriter after getting a laptop. My first draft was written with a pen, the second on my old friend the typwriter, and finally I used the computer. But something then went wrong. I could not find new ribbons for my old machine. So now I still keep the typewriter conspicuously on my desk and (hiding my laptop) use it to fool burglars who come looking for state-of-the-art technology.Deborah MoggachI write on an Apple Mac ... though I did start writing because I very much enjoyed typing, the physical act of typing, when I was working in an office. Had a handsome Adler typewriter and I loved the way the words impressed themselves on the paper, so physical compared with a computer. "Writing is typing," as somebody or other said, and I agree. The clackety-clack, the pause, the anointing with Tippex ... all gone now, except for the pause.Will SelfI use one because of their aesthetics: the total silence when you stop working, and the deranged timpani when you begin. The staccato pleasures of intermittent thought are lost on the computer keyboard. Besides, the computer and all the sticky worldwide web it drags behind it are distractions we don't need, while the typewriter produced a physical analogue of thought that is, ipso facto, more apprehensible. Ultimately, it makes no practical difference if you work on a manual typewriter - it simply means you have to think in your head insted of on the screen.Julian BarnesPenelope LivelyLisa Allardiceguardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2009 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds feeds.guardian.co.uk |
TBR: Inside the List Arthur Koestler made the best-seller lists four times before his suicide in 1983. feeds.nytimes.com |
Editors’ Choice Recently reviewed books of particular interest. feeds.nytimes.com |
Is Trilogy really just theatrical Gok Wan? Although Nic Green's Trilogy celebrates women of all shapes and sizes, where is the diversity and engagement with contemporary feminist debates?It was heralded as "an intoxicating celebration of women andfeminism"; a proud declaration of sisterhood that would leave useuphoric. I went along to Friday night's performance of NicGreen's Trilogy at the Barbican with a weight of expectationheavier than usual. Still, I was confident the show could withstandthe hype: plenty of folk I trust had already been wowed by itsintelligence and artistic triumphs. Why, then, after nearly three hours of rousing dance, audienceparticipation and feminist seminaring, did I feel so deflated? Notjust disappointed, but lost. I'd been primed for theatre that made abold and compelling feminist statement: I came out wondering whether,really, it was just theatrical Gok Wan. At base, Trilogy aims to make women feel empowered not through theirsocial, academic or historic achievements, but via a celebration oftheir bodies. The first part climaxes with a self-selecting group of200 naked "real women" joyously dancing to the Clash's I Fought the Law, presumably to make us appreciate all our individual lumps, bumps and wobbly bits. This is followed up with a re-enactment – through more naked choreography, naturally – of Town Bloody Hall, the seminal 1971 debate on women's liberation in which a group of feminists, notably Germaine Greer and Jill Johnston, took on a boorish Norman Mailer. The final section, one part agitprop to two parts pep talk, encourages women to make their own herstories, run for the hills and sing Jerusalem (again, naked) at the top of their lungs. It's not that I wasn't convinced by Green's enthusiasm – nor herambition to make women feel good about themselves  – but I found itbizarre how short the work sold itself. Instead of presenting us witha thoughtful new discourse, one that might have shown us how far women have come since second-wave feminism, Trilogy was stunted by a naive and simplistic veneration of Greer and Johnston. Overly self-indulgent in places (the extended repetitive sequences of movement; the performers prostrating in awe in front of Town Bloody Hall), it felt as if sections of the piece might have been better left in the rehearsal room. And while the nudity of the performers was deliberately un-erotic (but often witty, daring and beautiful), did that necessarily mean it marked progressive empowerment? To me, the naked protest was stripped of its ability to shock – itself a comment on the ubiquity of nudity – and thus felt redundant, even predictable. Considering that it's nearly two decades since Naomi Wolf's TheBeauty Myth was first published, three since Susie Orbach's Fat isa Feminist Issue and four since Greer's The Female Eunuch, thatmainstream feminism – and subsequently, feminist art – is still sopreoccupied with female physicality is depressing. Arguably, we'venever lived in an age that's more fixated on body image,but I would have hoped that by 2010, allowing ourselves as women to bedefined by our bodies would be considered – well, somewhat quaint. I wasn't expecting Green to present us with a dialogue inpostcolonial and transnational feminism, but I had anticipatedsomething more radical and inclusive. (I was born and raised inEngland but never knew the significance of Blake's Jerusalem, muchless found myself moved enough to undress and sing along for thefinale of the show.) Where is the theatre that addresses gender equality, disparityin pay, the rights of sex workers? Where is the work that gives voiceto women who are oppressed by race and/or class, and which goes beyond the dominant priorities of white and middle-class women? Although Trilogy succeeded in celebrating the diverse shapes and sizes of women, it failed to engage with the diverse range of contemporary feminist debates. This was a piece of theatre in desperate need of more meat on its bones.TheatreFeminismGermaine GreerNosheen Iqbalguardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2010 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds feeds.guardian.co.uk |